


adjustments

by bleakmidwinter



Category: Rope (1948)
Genre: Domestic, Fighting, Kissing, M/M, Sexual Content, adjusting to a new home, also salad, angsty, moving in, references to the film, the whole shindig
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-14
Updated: 2019-03-14
Packaged: 2019-11-17 21:54:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,725
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18107225
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bleakmidwinter/pseuds/bleakmidwinter
Summary: brandon and phillip move into their new apartment and struggle to adapt





	adjustments

Adjustment for most individuals requires patient adaptation. One must first be prepared for adjustment before they can pass over the barrier of trepidation between them and their future. Phillip doesn't know how he's ended up here, in a horribly large apartment, and beside a couch half the size of a steam engine. 

 

He and Brandon graduated from Columbia University, spent their summer in Mrs. Shaw's farmhouse, and now they are here. Just like that.

 

Of course Phillip wasn't kidnapped or unknowingly coerced into settling down with Brandon. He knew this had been coming. In all honesty, he had been the one to ask to live together. Brandon hadn't answered right away, answered with his eyes really. As if to say,  _ what else have we been doing for the past decade?  _

 

Brandon found the real estate. Brandon did business with the real estate agent. Brandon handled the financial settlement and the mortgage. It was the way Phillip wanted it, a surprise. Perhaps he just desired less work.

 

But, he now stands in the center of a barron living room, the windows too large and so horrendously bright he must squint. They haven't gone out for more furniture; they bought a bed and a couch, and a piano that was still being hauled up by the moving men.  

 

It's perfect. Phillip hates it.

 

There is no history to this place. It's empty and cold despite the warmth from the sun, and there's a ghastly quiet that has nothing to do with silence.

 

Brandon can tell he's not happy; he can always tell exactly what Phillip is feeling despite years of Phillip attempting to change this. 

 

“Penny for your thoughts?”

 

“My thoughts are worth a quarter,” Phillip responds. He looks around for alcohol as if it will just appear before him. Brandon knows what he needs and he gestures for him to follow him to the kitchen.

 

Phillip can somehow feel the chill of the kitchen tiles through the thick soles of his shoes.

 

“How do you like the icebox?” Brandon stutters. Phillip almost feels bad. Brandon prepared everything for him, has probably been jittery with excitement this whole week for the big reveal. And Phillip hasn't even taken notice.

 

“Lovely.” Phillip opens the icebox to pick up the single bottle of Brandy beside Brandon's preferred Vodka. Without ceremony, he pops the top off and takes a swig with his mouth.

 

“We do have glasses, you know,” Brandon says. He sounds mildly amused, and  _ ever _ so mildly peeved. 

 

“Since when have you ever cared about propriety?” Phillip says back with a bite to his tone. This makes Brandon back off.

 

On a good day, Brandon Shaw is always willing to give a good verbal brawl. Today, Phillip assumes he just wants everything to smoothly run its course. Until everything is settled.

 

But they're settled now. They are settled, and this is Phillip's whole future. There is no escaping this one bedroom ghost town apartment where the icebox barely chills a mediocre bottle of Brandy. He takes another swig anyway.

 

“Just don't embarrass yourself in front of the movers,” Brandon finally says. He runs a thumb over his lip and strolls out into the hall. 

 

* * *

 

Hours after the movers have gone, and late into the evening a bottle smashes against the archway leading from the main hall into the living room. Brandon had been reading instructions of furniture assembly, and he nearly drops the pages when Phillip comes stumbling in with Brandon's (now half empty) bottle of Vodka in hand.

 

Brandon looks angry, but he always makes a valiant attempt to remain calm when Phillip is drunk. 

 

“Do you know how hard it is to clean glass from a rug, let alone Vodka?” He drawls.

 

Phillip scoffs and moves to the center of the living room. Even in his inebriated, lost state of mind, he can still appreciate the view of city nightlife. Cars honk loudly and neon lights flicker. It's mesmerizing. The glow mixes into the black background, the square and rectangular shapes of buildings blacker than the sky.

 

“I don't like it here,” Phillip mumbles. He doesn't make eye contact with Brandon, but out of the corner of his eye he can see him stand up 

 

“It's barely been five hours.”

 

“I hate it here!” Phillip shouts this time. He sounds like a child and he despises that. He hates this place. This apartment. Brandon. No he can't hate Brandon. He's never been able to hate Brandon. He wants to hate Brandon. He wants to love Brandon. Right now he'd like Brandon to hold him, but Brandon bites back, deservedly.

 

You can kick a loyal dog but it will always, eventually, bare its teeth in warning.

 

“I didn't see you there making any decisions on realty, I thought you said you'd be okay with anything.” Phillip makes eye contact now and he regrets it. Brandon's face is twisted in rage, but his eyes tell a different story. He's hurt.

 

“I told you that wasn't my place,” Phillip replies.

 

“Why not?” Brandon asks, incredulous. “We're living together, you have every right to pick and choose whatever makes you satisfied. You can't criticize me for making a decision when you told me you wanted no part in it.”

 

“I would have made the same decision, this same apartment, a similar apartment. I would have said yes,” Phillip snaps. 

 

“Then what are you harping on about?!”

 

“How are you fine?!” Phillip shouts. His words are slurred, but his eyes sting and he feels them swell with wetness. Brandon is calculating a response, interpreting his words, but he won't allow it. “You moved in like this was just another dorm room in some private academy. You're showing me couches and ice boxes and our own personal stash of booze like it's nothing! You're ready to call this home and you don't think about it. You're a brick wall, Brandon. How can you not see the issue?”

 

Brandon's jaw clenches and Phillip is too drunk to realize he's struck a nerve. “You're being quite unfair, Phillip.”

 

Phillip shakes his head, a painful throbbing replacing the fuzzy feeling. He makes a sound that is close to a sob and pushes by Brandon to the couch. “I'm sleeping here.”

 

“P-Phill-”

 

“I told you, I'm sleeping here!” Phillip barks and he all but collapses onto the ugly green cushions. He can't remember how long Brandon stood and watched him because he passes out in what seems like moments after. 

 

* * *

 

They don't speak for five days. It's nothing they can't handle, they've gone longer without speaking to each other in prep school. It always ends in makeup sex, or at least a hug in their earlier years.

 

As Phillip sobered up, and the alcohol in the fridge didn't restock itself, he began to force himself to figure out this internal conflict.

 

He does love the apartment on the aesthetic front. Deep down he likes how the rug matches the walls, and he enjoys the coat closet in the hall being hidden behind the wallpaper. He adores their bedroom, though he hasn't yet had the luxury of sleeping in it which is his own fault. 

 

Brandon hadn't made an effort to speak to him either, oddly enough. He's always the one to break the silence, always desperate for attention, always craving Phillip's. It stings slightly that he's barely thrown him so much as a glance.

 

He'll give it one more day, then he'll say sorry. He hates apologizing to Brandon, watching the smug expression crawl it's way into his lips and those same lips crushing his own seconds later. The latter isn't always the worst outcome.

 

Later, when Phillip has moved the piano in the living room to a different corner (for the fourth time), he hears Brandon in the kitchen. Sucking in a deep breath, and puffing out his chest, he strolls over as quietly as he can.

  
  


When he walks in through the swinging door, Brandon gives a subdued smile. He's holding a large salad bowl and a plum colored wine bottle.

 

“Amends?” He asks and Phillip wants to laugh. He smiles back instead.

 

“What kind of salad?”

 

“Garden,” Brandon says with a grin. This man and his salad. Knowing him he'd spent at least an hour on this alone, not even putting into consideration his planning process. Most men of his wealth and stature would join a wine or cheese club, but he chooses his larder interests on the green side of things. It's not like Phillip can complain about a good diet. 

 

“Then perhaps,” Phillip responds and sits down. Brandon likes to be the one to prepare each salad bowl. He awkward swerves around the oversized dining table as he places forks and knives on either side of their setups. He sits down at last, breathless.

 

“Water-” he suddenly blurts out, and Phillip is amused that he looks like a madman whose lost his straitjacket.

 

“I'll get it, Brandon-”

 

Brandon stands up. “I'm getting it.”

 

Phillip stands up too, “I said I would, sit down.”

 

Brandon glares at him. Phillip glares back. Neither makes a move until Brandon blinks throwing off the staredown just slightly enough for Phillip to add, “I'm not up for playing games, Brandon.”

 

“I'm not either.” Brandon moves and Phillip follows. Brandon stops again.

 

“You're being a child,” he says under his breath.

 

“You're being foolish,” Phillip retorts.

 

“How about we get the water together?” Brandon asks, obviously irritable at the idea of a compromise. 

 

“Is this how it's going to be, Brandon? You and I living together alone? We'd always had a housemaster, or your mother, or a residential assistant checking in on us constantly. Perhaps that's why things never delved into chaos, but this is just getting out of hand.”

 

“It's two glasses of water, Phillip. Not the end of the world.”

 

“That's my point. What happens if the world starts to end? Will we quite literally rip each other's throats out and pick up the pieces when we're dead?” 

 

“I suggest you stop your morbid outbursts before you regret something new,” Brandon says darkly.

 

“Don't tell me what to do,” Phillip attempts to push past Brandon. His arm is caught in Brandon's hand. 

 

“You can at least try to like it here. You can at least pretend.” Brandon’s grip is vice-like.

 

“It's not about liking it here,” Phillip snaps and he wishes he'd drank a glass of wine before this conversation. He can't make eye contact. “I like it here.”

 

“It's me then,” Brandon settles. His grip grows tighter so Phillip rips his arm free, circling the dining table to the wine. He uncaps it and takes a swig. It tastes bitter.

 

Brandon closes in on him. “What is wrong with you? You've been contentious ever since we arrived." 

 

Phillip closes his eyes. It's not about Brandon. It is and it isn't, but he most certainly loves him. Unfortunately. Profoundly. Continuously. But, he can't put into words what's eating at him. How he feels empty at the piano even as he creates new melodies. How he looks out the window and doesn't see the world, but a painting of it. How he wants to open his eyes to the first day of prep school before he met Brandon, only so he can look forward to the moment he does. How his back is starting to hurt from the couch, but he can't bring himself to come to their bed. Even though they've shared beds for more than a decade. How it's not Brandon's fault, but there is nothing else to take this feeling out on.

 

“Don't bother living here if all you're going to do is whine and moan, and act like you're man enough to make your own decisions, when you beg me to do your dirty work,” Brandon says sharply. Phillip feels sick. Feels bile nearly crawl up his throat. He can see the sliver of regret in Brandon's eyes but he's overcome with a sudden urge to lash out.

 

Phillip proceeds to pour the entire bottle of wine into the big garden salad bowl Brandon had spent hours on. He makes direct eye contact, not blinking until the bottle is entirely empty. Brandon stands there with his mouth agape.

 

In the following seconds, Phillip has never seen Brandon so feral. The salad bowl is shoved to the side, miraculously remaining on the dining table as Phillip's belt is ripped from around his waist and his teeth and lips and  _ tongue _ are clashing wildly with Brandon's. The usual fear of getting caught sets in, and is followed with the pleasant realisation they are truly and utterly alone and free to make love as loud and as hard as they please. Somehow this hadn't crossed Phillip's mind when they moved in. It certainly sweetens the deal. He feels a firm hand pressing into the warm of his briefs, leans desperately into it, and pulls tightly at Brandon's hair until he hears a small pained noise. Brandon fucks him hard on the table until silverware clatters together in clusters, bouncing off the table. They haven't touched each other in a week, and it is an embarrassingly short amount of time until they're both sweating and breathless, and spent. 

 

Brandon cleans them off silently, with some water and a napkin, and they resolve to clean everything in the morning. Wine-Salad be damned. Brandon carries Phillip to bed, and it's the first night in nearly a week Phillip is able to sleep soundly. 

  
  


* * *

 

Phillip wakes up to Brandon's face inches from his own and he's tracing a long finger around a purple-green blemish on Phillip's shoulder.

 

“Morning,” Phillip says. He's content for the first time in days. Still feels relatively hollow, but it's not a new feeling.

 

“I bruised you,” Brandon says. His gorgeous blue eyes stare into Phillip's brown. Phillip swallows. Sometimes he feels like his fourteen year old prep school self, entirely flustered by this one man alone. 

 

“You know I don't mind.”

 

“You don't mind when it's intentional,” Brandon replies. 

 

“With my behavior the past few days, I probably deserve more than a few bruises.”

 

Brandon's brow creases in the way which Phillip understands he wants to disagree. Phillip turns to face the other way, but scoots back so Brandon can hold him from behind.

 

Brandon moves into position without question, and he kisses Phillip's hairline above his ears softly. “Last night shouldn't have been our first time in this apartment.”

 

“Maybe that much is true,” Phillip whispers and closes his eyes. He still feels the yellow light from the window on his eyelids. “But, it's quite fitting for us isn't it?”

 

Brandon doesn't respond but he wraps a large arm around Phillip's middle and Phillip runs his fingers along the toned muscles and the soft hair. He could live the rest of his life in this moment. 

 

It hits him again that he will. This is his life now. Forever. With Brandon Shaw, in a bed larger than his first prep school dorm room. After what seems like an hour, Brandon shifts and miserably grunts.

 

He doesn't want to leave the bed. 

 

“We'd better clean that salad up,” he admits grumpily. Phillip holds back a laugh. They'd fought over glasses of water. An entire wine bottle had made its way into a salad. It really was foolish. Of course it went deeper than that, but at the surface, Phillip can't help but be amused.

 

Brandon takes his arm back and Phillip feels cold.

 

“Do you want to go into the city today? We still need to do some shopping, we've put it off for long enough.”

 

Phillip nods sleepily, considering snatching a few more hours of sleep. But, he wants to help Brandon clean up. The mess was mostly his doing anyhow. Once his feet are on the floor, he reaches out his hands. Brandon is in the middle of looping a buckle, and he rolls his eyes tenderly before hauling Phillip up into a standing position. 

 

They clean up the mess, and then take a shower together. Phillip ends up with his face pressed into the cold tile wall as he receives kisses down his spine and a sizable hand stroking him to a warm and sleepy completion. He'd slump down the wall afterwards if Brandon wasn't standing waiting to wash the conditioner from Phillip's hair.

 

The city is windy, Phillip's gelled hair loses a few strands. Brandon didn't bother touching up his own hair before going out. He looks like a proper commoner, ready to buy a cheap pack of cigarettes and a beer. Even now as they grow older, Phillip forgets they are not allowed to hold hands in public. He is left with his hands constantly twitching at his sides or forced in his pockets to control himself. 

 

They pick out a large brown chest for the middle of the living room. They need a place for storage. Excess books they don't want to buy more shelves for, travel necessities. The living room is still fairly barron even with the new bookshelves, couch, and piano. Phillip represses the urge to stroke Brandon's back as Brandon stands in front of two very similar looking wood desks. One has a blue middle, and another green.

 

“Green would match our couch,” Phillip whispers. Brandon nods, and then nods again a few seconds later. He stops contemplating after another two minutes and they purchase both the green desk and the chest. 

 

Later they come home with extra chairs, green as well. Phillip wondered how the green theme had come to fruition. 

 

Vaguely, Phillip remembers the color green being associated with the feeling of guilt in his classic literature class. Over the past few days he'd become accustomed to the color, even fond of it. He doesn't mind the extra green accents.

 

The apartment is starting to feel more like a home. While Brandon is in the kitchen making dinner, Phillip spots the piano on the right side of the room. He grumbles and goes to slide it on the left one last time. He can't quite get the right feel of tone, and it all depends on space for Phillip. He backs it up close to the bookshelves lining the walls. 

 

The chest across the room catches his eye. It's huge, ominous. A person could almost definitely fit inside. If he were still in prep school, he can imagine playing hide and seek with Brandon. Phillip is so stubborn he might not have come out of it for a whole day.  

 

* * *

 

Brandon and Phillip are together in bed that night. Brandon is unclipping Phillip's socks from his garters, and kissing the soft skin of Phillip's ankles. Phillip shivers at the unfamiliar gentleness. 

 

He kisses up Phillip's thighs with the same gentleness, and his hands barely press into the flesh of his calves. Brandon looks more focused than he did taking a midterm for uni. His eyebrows are creased in that certain way that signals to Phillip he wouldn't even notice if a fire broke out beside them.

 

“Brandon,” Phillip says warily, running a hand through his soft hair. Brandon doesn't listen and crawls up the bed until he can grab the top button of Phillip's shirt with his teeth and undo it expertly. “ _ Brandon _ ,” Phillip says more urgently.

 

Brandon looks at him with tired eyes. “Yes.”

 

“You're doing it again.”

 

“Doing what?”

 

Phillip takes a patient breath. “You feel bad about last night and this week so you're paying me back with sex.” 

 

“We have sex all the time,” Brandon states, but he has the expression of a child who just got caught with their hand in the cookie jar,  _ again _ . 

 

“I know the difference between sex and obligation, Brandon. You've never been able to hide that from me. You're very tired, your eyes are doing that droopy thing.” Phillip tugs at his shoulders until Brandon moves to lie down next to him. 

 

“Sorry,” Brandon says. His eyes are glazed over in thought. 

 

Phillip inches closer to him until Brandon wraps his arms around his middle so they can fall asleep in their preferred position. Minutes later when he's sure Brandon has fallen asleep, Phillip says wistfully, “When will you learn?”

 

* * *

 

Phillip bows, and his back aches when he straightens up again. The audience claps for him and the other band members on stage. He’d be damned if he could remember any of their names. He always denied their offers to go to the clubs together after practice. Picking up nameless women in some lowly joint and smoking until you feel fuzzy in the head, had never been Phillip’s scene. How could it be? 

 

For the first time, he thinks, ever, he smiles on stage as the curtains close. He is going to see Brandon tomorrow morning. It’s been two weeks since his concert tour started. There is no reason he accepted; Brandon suggested it would be good practice to start performing at dance halls and higher end aristocratic clubs. And, it would bring good reputation. 

 

Phillip despises the process. Sleeping alone in a hotel room every night, hearing the men he performs with shout and scream in their drunkenness till three am every night in the room beside him. It’s the only time he’s ever held contempt for alcohol. 

 

He misses Brandon. He’ll never know how he lasted summers without him during school. Whole summers, this had just been two weeks. Nothing he couldn't handle, or so he thought. 

 

The girls the band members introduce him to are disgusting. Their lipstick is drawn over the line of their thin chapped lips, and their hair is always straggled like they’d been in a dogfight. 

 

They ask him what a handsome young man like himself is doing, a bachelor in Chicago playing on one of the biggest concert tours since Count Basie. He always shrugs and smiles politely, and wishes he could say he’s not single. 

 

They would ask him details if he denounced his bachelor title. What’s her name? Where do you live with her? Thought of marriage, yet? Kids? Is she pretty? What color is her hair? What kind of fashion is she into? So he avoids fibbing. Not to mention if anyone found out he were living with another “bachelor” after lying about a girlfriend, word around town might become suspicious. 

 

Tonight, the man with the ginger hair who never takes showers and isn’t half as good at drums as Phillip is on the piano grabs Phillip and drags him to the side. “We’re going to celebrate the closing at Nick’s Uptown, wanna come?”

 

“I have a train to catch, I’m afraid,” Phillip says with an uncomfortable smile.

 

“Oh come on, one drink. You’ve done nothing with us. There’s bound to be some skirts over there,” he bumps his shoulder firmly into Phillip’s. It hurts. 

 

Phillip Morgan has never been able to take just one drink in his life, not that  _ that's _ the reason he's refusing to go.

 

“No, I’m sorry,” Phillip deadpans. If he repeats himself again he fears he might burst. He frowns a smidge, fakely apologetic. The ginger man’s face twists into annoyance. He pushes by him mumbling the word  _ queer _ , or something else equally damning. Phillip huffs, and grabs his coat. 

 

* * *

 

Phillip sleeps on the train out of Chicago. Train rides are long and bumpy, and he does nothing but dream and ruminate. He wonders what Brandon’s been doing for weeks. Probably writing up scholarly reviews for Philosophical articles like he said he would.  Phillip prays he hasn’t contacted Rupert. The thought of them talking while Phillip is out of the apartment is sickening. 

 

He gets back in the evening, the next day, later than he expected. Carefully, he unlocks the door to their apartment with his key and grins when he steps inside. It smells like Brandon, and home. “Hello?” He calls, half expecting Brandon to run to him and scoop him up. 

 

When nobody comes, he shuts the door and moves into the living room. It’s a mess. Brandon is passed out on the couch with a newspaper over his face, and a glass of what is hopefully water knocked over on the rug. It seemingly slipped from his hand.

 

Normally, Brandon isn’t much of a drinker. There are clothes and books on the floor. Like a human hurricane moved up and down the apartment. He glances over at the kitchen. There are plates upon plates on the table needing to be washed. 

 

“Brandon,” he says loud enough to wake Brandon up. He rushes over to kneel in front of him on the couch. “What happened? Did we get robbed?”

 

“I would have called you if that were the case,” Brandon mumbles, and takes the newspaper off his face. He hasn’t shaved in days. He always shaves. Phillip reaches out to run a finger down his cheek. There’s probably not going to be a next time if he snaps out of whatever funke he’s in right now. It’s bristly. Phillip smiles.

 

Brandon does him one better, he leans in for a kiss the second they make eye contact. Phillip grins and giggles. The beard tickles. Brandon rolls his eyes.

 

“This is why I never grow a beard,” Brandon says under his breath. He attempts to sit up and he holds his head in his hands. Something like a hangover, most likely. 

 

“Oh please, you’d crave the attention I’d give you,” Phillip climbs up beside him, one knee on the couch, and he kisses Brandon’s neck softly. “I missed you.”

  
Brandon swallows and turns his head away. Bashfulness perhaps. “I missed you too.” 

 

“What’s with the mess?” 

 

“To be entirely honest, your leaving discombobulated my daily routines, and before I knew it, all the newspapers on the floor had become unnoticeable,” Brandon says.

 

“Always ready to blame it on me,” Phillip replies, but there’s no venom in his voice.

 

“I’m not blaming you.”

 

“I told you, you could have come. I would have liked you to have been there on the tour,” Phillip says, and reaches for Brandon’s hand. Brandon intertwines their fingers.

 

“I was behind on my publications, I suppose I might have somehow been able to take my work on the road, but it was easier for me here.”

 

“Unfortunately so,” Phillip says and with a smirk he adds, “I was tempted by my bandmates’ constant invitations to go out and hook up with some drunken dames. If you were there you could have ceased those temptations.”

 

Albeit, attempting to pull the jealousy card with Brandon by feigning attraction to women wouldn't work even under the most prejudiced of eyes.

 

Brandon scoffs, and Phillip can’t help but laugh watching Brandon’s face twist in discontent.

 

“You’ve never cared a fig about a skirt of any kind.” 

 

Brandon is correct. Phillip knows he’d rather throw himself out the window than be washed up with some woman. This topic always bothers Brandon though, and Phillip loves to exploit it. 

 

“What if I change my mind someday? Leave you for some pretty gal with blonde hair and a bigger bank account?”

 

“I have the bigger bank account!” Brandon declares, and he looks absolutely ridiculous with his beard, muffed up hair, and only an undershirt on. 

 

Phillip slots a leg around Brandon’s lap and runs a hand down his chest until he reaches the front of Brandon’s slacks. He squeezes and at the same time whispers low, “Compensating?” He kisses his jaw where Brandon’s stubble is the sharpest. 

 

Brandon brings him in for a full kiss, and Phillip ends up on his lap, riding him quick and fast until the sun sets and the city lights illuminate, casting a neon glow over the two of them. After it all, Phillip’s head is resting on Brandon’s shoulder, focusing only on the slow rise and fall of Brandon’s breathing.

 

The darkness is comforting. The neon lights even more so, the flickering of the large red letters casting an attractive glow over their features. It softens them. Phillip wonders if every night will be this beautiful. He wonders if sex will always feel this good with Brandon. He wonders how much sex the average Heterosexual Manhattan couple has in one day. He Wonders if Brandon loves him.

 

Eventually when the quiet becomes suffocating, Phillip says with a familiar lilt, “Let’s hire a maid.” 

**Author's Note:**

> i'm very tired but i want you guys to know i spent like a day on this, but i love the outcome. i'm tired. goodnight and enjoy. (also gus i love you).


End file.
